‘Unfortunately, we’re going to have to be the judges of that,’ Scarlett said, the softness gone from her tone. She was a cop again, her jaw hard, her eyes sharp. ‘A girl is dead. If one of your “threats” is responsible, we need to know. And don’t even consider telling me that you won’t reveal your sources,’ she snapped, interrupting him before he could do exactly that. ‘You called me because you knew I’d help that girl. Don’t stand in my way now.’
She was right, he had to admit. He had called her. He had involved her. ‘I’ll have it to you within the hour.’
‘What will I get?’ she asked warily.
‘A list of the threats I’ve received.’ Those he was willing to share, anyway. Some of the threats were not credible. Others had already been dealt with. Others would be far too revealing, especially to this pair of investigators. He’d pick and choose the ones that would do him no damage. ‘How far back do you want me to go? Six months? A year? Five years?’
She blinked once. ‘You keep a list?’
‘My office manager does. Just in case.’
She glanced at Deacon. ‘How far back do you think? Three years?’
Deacon shrugged. ‘It’s as good a place to start as any.’ He turned his odd bi-colored eyes on Marcus in a cool stare. ‘I’ll need your gun.’
Marcus was glad he’d had the opportunity to get used to Deacon’s eyes in the less stressful, more social environment of their family get-togethers. Otherwise he might have been startled into making an admission he’d regret later. They were half brown, half blue, each iris split down the middle. At first glance, the sight was unsettling. A little mesmerizing. Marcus was certain that Deacon used his eyes to the greatest advantage during interrogations.
Now, Marcus simply returned Deacon’s stare without a blink. ‘What makes you think I have a gun?’
Deacon rolled those odd eyes. ‘Because you’re wearing Kevlar and a damn camera,’ he said once again. ‘You’re wasting my time, Marcus.’
Yes, he was, Marcus realized, and was suddenly ashamed of himself. Because as soon as he gave them his gun, they’d let him go. Scarlett would walk away to do her job. And he’d be alone again. Which was even more pathetic than it sounded in his head.
‘You’re right.’ He dropped to one knee and removed the pocket-sized Sig from its ankle holster, then straightened his spine and placed the gun in Deacon’s outstretched palm.
Deacon sniffed the barrel. ‘You didn’t fire tonight.’
‘No. I drew my weapon, but the shooter was gone. It was fired two days ago, at the range. Your CSU guy did a gun residue test before you got here. It was negative.’
Deacon didn’t blink. ‘You could have worn gloves.’
‘I didn’t.’ He ventured a glance at Scarlett, found her gaze watchful. And aware of him in a way that she probably shouldn’t be. In a way that made his skin heat. In a way that had nothing to do with fury and everything to do with . . . want.
‘What about your knife?’ she asked, her cool tone at odds with the look in her eyes.
Caught off guard, he blinked, his brain backtracking quickly. ‘My knife?’
‘You cut her shirt,’ she said quietly, ‘when you tried to stop her bleeding. The knife you used will have her blood on it. Where is it?’
Annoyed for allowing himself to be surprised, he dug in his pocket and pulled out the folding knife he never left home without. ‘I want it back,’ he muttered as he dropped it into the evidence bag she held out.
She tilted the bag toward the crime-scene unit’s spotlights so that she could examine the knife’s hilt. ‘This is very nice.’ She glanced at him again. ‘Army issue?’
If she knew he’d been army, she’d been checking up on him. He wondered how deep she’d dug, how much she’d learned. ‘Surplus store,’ he said, uttering the half-truth smoothly. The knife he’d handed over to Bishop was the same one he’d carried through combat. It had saved his life more times than he wanted to count, and he’d found himself curiously unable to part with it when his tour was up. When the time had come to turn in his gear, he’d bought a replacement of the same make to give back to the army. He’d carried the knife since the day he’d come home from the Gulf . . . just because. Okay, fine. It was a security blanket. He was man enough to admit that. Just barely.
He hadn’t started carrying the gun until after he’d worked at the newspaper for a few months – and made a few enemies right here in Cinci. The list had grown considerably over the years, but he wouldn’t undo a single deed he’d done.
Except . . . Damn, he hoped Tala had been the target. He didn’t want to consider that she’d been killed because of him. He looked up, troubled. ‘She was just a kid.’
Scarlett’s shoulders sagged, softening her almost military stance. ‘Your brother Mikhail’s age,’ she murmured, compassion darkening her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry, Marcus.’
Meeting her gaze, he felt it again. That spark between them. That connection. ‘Thank you.’
Discomfort flickered across her features a split second before her shoulders straightened and her expression grew cold and piercing. In the blink of an eye she was back to being a cop. ‘We don’t have any reason to hold you,’ she said brusquely, ‘but we’re sure to have more questions. You don’t have any upcoming travel planned, do you?’
Well, he thought sourly. Her allotted moment of compassion was evidently over. He opened his mouth to reply with something sarcastic, but stopped himself. He wasn’t being fair. Her compassion was still there. It had always been there. He’d seen it the day she’d stood beside his hospital bed, then again at his brother’s grave, even though she’d kept to the very back of the gathered crowd. He could see it now, lurking behind the piercing focus of her eyes.
She didn’t want it to show and he could respect that. For now. ‘No,’ he answered quietly. ‘I’m not planning to go anywhere.’
She gave him an assessing look. ‘Because you’re going to search for Tala’s killer.’
He lifted a shoulder. ‘I make my living digging for news, Detective.’
‘Don’t,’ she said sharply. ‘Don’t go looking for the shooter or anyone else. Send me that list of people you’ve annoyed, and any other recordings you made of Tala in the park – as quickly as you can.’ She handed him her card. ‘My email is at the bottom.’
He already knew her email. He already knew almost everything about her – everything he could dig up legally from afar, that was. Well, he allowed, mostly legally. And mostly from afar. Because he’d been way too curious about this woman since he’d opened his eyes to find her standing over his hospital gurney, her gaze dark and wary. And full of respect.
He’d seen it again tonight, he realized. Respect. When he’d come back to make sure Tala’s body was properly cared for. When he hadn’t left the girl alone in the dark. It had been too long since he’d felt true respect for himself. He’d once done the right thing simply because it was the right thing to do. His self-respect had kept him from giving in to the ever-growing temptation to deliver his own brand of justice to the slimy, perverted sons-of-bitches responsible for making the news he dug up for a living. But his self-respect dwindled every time the slimy SOBs won, every time he failed to remove a threat from the community. Every time a child went to bed afraid because the slimy SOB still slept in the next room.
Now the only thing that stayed his hand was his fear of falling so deep into the abyss that he could never pull himself out. Delivering one’s own brand of justice was a slippery slope. Marcus O’Bannion knew this from experience.
But tonight he’d seen respect in Scarlett Bishop’s eyes, and suddenly he wanted to see that again. Desperately. He’d been too curious about this woman from afar for far too long. Maybe fate had finally done him a favor. Maybe Scarlett had crossed his path for a reason. Maybe she was his way back into the light. Or maybe he was just so pathetically lonely that he’d believe anything that allowed him to spend a little more time with her. I’m okay with that too.